Resisting Rosaleen (18+)

2

"I've read your file and you seem to be an excellent student."

He nodded slowly while his pretty brown eyes scanned the papers in the folder. They aren't the traditional brown, I came to notice. They're light—almost yellow, almost orange. Honey with clusters of gold and chocolate lining the rim. Something told me that he knew what I was admiring. I guess he's heard compliments aimed at the asset before.

"You've been on the honor roll since freshman year and you've never gotten any violations."

He closed the file and set it on the table with a gentleness that you wouldn't expect from a large man like him, "I can say that you've graced this institution with your presence."

"Thank you, Mr. Camillo," I replied, taking the chance to test his name aloud. It made me feel giddy like a schoolgirl because a giddy schoolgirl is exactly what I am. Shit. When has a name ever made me feel giddy? Get a grip, Molly Maxwell.

"So, tell me. What made you transfer in the middle of senior year? Hm?" the ghost of a knowing look was haunting his face as his eyes glinted of curiosity. Curiosity that I intended on not satisfying. To my amusement, Mr. Nikolas Camillo's shiny bright eyes were judging me.

"I sorry, Mr. Camillo, but the answer is highly personal."

I cocked my head to one side, "I hope you don't mind," and batted my eyelashes most naturally and subtly as I could. Works like a charm, I tell you. One of the oldest tricks in the book that Hollywood is close to ruining if it had not already.

He stared at me long and hard before replying, "Not at all. I respect your privacy, Ms. Martin. No need to apologize."

The man leaned against the back of his chair. He opened the folder between us, the silver band on his ring finger taunting me silently. Wedding rings scream challenge. I love challenges.

"Inside the folder is your schedule, a map of the campus, a copy of our handbook, your certificate of registration, a list of requirements for all your subjects, and their syllabus." Camillo pulled out a pen and placed a sheet in front of me, "I need you to sign here as proof that you've received them."

I followed to where his finger was pointing and signed on a blank with my name under it. For a few seconds, I let myself get distracted with his sexy hands, a common on-turning asset that I look out for. My mind went as far as to wonder how they'd feel against my skin: molding, caressing, grasping, exploring the curves and creases of my body.

Mr. Camillo then went over with a brief explanation of everything. He explained that you'll be counted as absent if you're fifteen minutes late to class, that the main gate requires you to scan your ID before entering, that uniforms should not be altered too much, and all other necessary rules. He told me that the schedule of activities for this semester is not yet final but said that I should expect prom in a few months and a grad celebration in May. I could care less about the damn events.

My interest clung onto Mr. Principal instead of the info blabbered into the air between us. His voice was cold, warm, smooth, and rough all at the same time—if such a thing were even possible. I could imagine how hot he'll sound during sex. His groans, moans, his sexy words, his grunts, fuck, maybe even slaps.

Trying to socialize with him more, I kept thinking of questions to ask him. Not stupid ones that are obvious—no, those would've given me away. I had a brain so I put it to good use by thinking of information that he forgot to mention. The man answered to the best of his abilities. I also gave myself the privilege of checking him out from time-to-time. When his eyes would wander to some part of the room, I let mine travel down his physique. The table limited my view to only half of him, but it was enough to flip a switch, specifically the one between my legs.